Legal Affairs

1

I've never been one for overly cheerful people; they unsettle me, their brightness too glaring against my more muted palette. So, when I catch Oliver, my assistant, animatedly discussing case strategies, his vibrancy strikes me as something straight out of an anime. Not at all what you'd expect from someone in our line of work. Most lawyers I know are as stiff as their pressed suits, aggressive in the courtroom, and heavily reliant on a steady stream of espresso to fuel their days. Oliver, however, is an anomaly in this world of ours—charming, energetic, and disarmingly charismatic.

He's currently weaving a narrative of optimism for a client, suggesting that her husband, caught up in accusations of fraud, could get off with a mere two years. My ears prick up at the audacity.

"Mr. Waterford," I find myself interrupting, turning to face Oliver with a level of incredulity I can't quite mask. The idea that he could make such a promise, especially with Judge Green presiding over the case, is ludicrous. I pivot towards our client, her blonde hair darkening at the roots, and lay down the hard truth. "We can't guarantee an outcome like that. Given the circumstances, we're likely looking at a sentence of 15 to 20 years."

Some might call me a skeptic for my views, but I prefer to think of it as seeing the world with clarity, unclouded by wishful thinking.

"Noah," Oliver chides, giving me that look of his, full of silent reprimands and yet somehow still gleaming with optimism. It's almost comical, how my parents named me—Noah, of all things. A plain ass white man's name, pinned on their daughter in the hopes of propelling me into a future of medical journals or legal briefs.

Well, it worked. Here I am, a Black woman navigating the treacherous waters of law with a name that couldn't be less fitting. Too bad my father isn't around to see it, and my mother... well, she's probably too high to care, lost in a haze somewhere far from here.

I don't let Oliver's disapproval phase me, though. This isn't a game of who can be the most charming. It's about hard, cold reality. And if my reality is to be a little too grounded, a bit too jaded, then so be it. At least I'm not selling fantasies that will crumble under the weight of the judicial system.

Oliver exhales, defeat sagging his posture, as our client steps out under the guise of needing the restroom. The moment the door clicks shut, he wheels on me. "Noah, you're meant to be the beacon of hope here, not the grim reaper scaring off our clientele with your doomsday predictions."

"'Doomsday predictions'?" I echo, my eyebrow hiking in disbelief. "She deserved the cold, hard truth, not some fairy tale. You don't honestly buy into the fantasy that her husband will dodge a hefty sentence, right?" My gaze drifts to the solemn faces of the white men immortalized in the portraits lining the mahogany walls. Oliver, with his lofty ideals, might as well be a descendant of these stiff, historical figures, mirroring Mr. Wilde's lineage.

He shakes his head, frustration rippling through his body. "No, but you don't have to say it. It's not going to do any good to make her worry."

"You should be preparing her, not trying to make her feel better," I argue. "This is her life, and she needs to know that."

He chuckles dryly. "First, that attitude of yours is probably why you're flying solo, and second, a little optimism can unlock doors you didn't even know existed."

Locking eyes with him, something flickers in his gaze, a chameleon dance of hues. A part of me wonders if he's onto something. But then, what do I care? Love's a game for those biding their time until something better comes along.

A vivid memory surges—a snapshot of my mother, fleeting in and out of our lives, leaving us hanging while my father broke his back to keep us afloat. My hands clench, the image burned into my mind, the pain seared into my soul. The images of her eyes red like a dragon when she'd come home from wherever she was spending her nights, my father's eyes rimmed with purple circles from his long hours at work.

"You're thinking of her again, aren't you?"

I shrug it off. "Nothing, just thinking." Is this the root of my cynicism? My trust doesn't just have cracks; it's shattered.

He nods.

And yet, here's Oliver, enduring my stormy weather for over two and a half years.

His eyes flick to his wrist, the glint of his AUDEMARS PIGUET a testament to his watch fetish. God, how many does he own now?

It's nearing noon. He gives me a knowing look. "Your usual, right? Double espresso, silk-smooth, sugar-free. Turkey and Brie on a toasted ciabatta, with just the right touch of cranberry aioli and arugula."

A small smile tugs at my lips, and I nod slightly. Damn, he knows me all too well, and it's unsettling yet comforting in a way that's hard to admit.